When I came out at 19 years old, my mom did not eat for days.
I spent that time trying to be straight. I wanted my hands to move more masculine, my thoughts to be more heterosexual and my words to not let my family down. I thought I was ill, and felt a deep sense of dread trying to accept my sexuality. A veil over reality introduced itself, as my body felt strange and my mind retreated to safety. Life became mechanical, and safety was no longer found at home. A thick fog of dissociation had set in.
Clearing this fog would mean to befriend it. It demanded to exist, and insisted it was purposeful. To find its place alongside an identity meant inviting the mind back to safety. Days defined me, while nights gave me strength and love saved me. Shared experiences became necessary, and connecting with communities that allow for the expression of self was undervalued. When you rob the queer community of their safety, you bury their sense of self and damage their livelihood along the way. We do not choose these struggles, but these struggles will never silence us. We move forward, as a collective.